


Frostfall, A Mosaic

by perthro



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Bisexual Character, Canonical Character Death, Dunmer culture is brutal, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind - Freeform, Elder Scrolls Lore, Elder Scrolls Online: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls Online: Summerset, Everything is terrible, F/F, F/M, Fantasy Racism, Fighter's Guild (Elder Scrolls), Gay Character, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Mages Guild, Multi, Orsimer Vestige, Other, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, Slice of Life, Thieves Guild, Thieves Guild Questline, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, Tribunal worship, because everyone on Tamriel is a jackass, just regular life on nirn, various characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-07-24 10:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16173242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perthro/pseuds/perthro
Summary: "Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all." -Stanley Horowitz30 October/Fall ficlet prompts in the world of Tamriel.





	1. Day 1: A Change of Season

**Author's Note:**

> For @Boethia on Tumblr's 'Inktober Ficlets' challenge,  
> which is real cool for those of us who can't draw: https://bitchwhoreofastorm.tumblr.com/post/178653474175/ 
> 
> Spoilers for, TES:Online, TES Arena through Skyrim, maybe Legends, just a whole bunch probably, I dunno.

1 Frostfall, 2E 584

It's warm in the Flaming Nix; the firepit crackles and flares as another drunken tourist tries their hand at dancing, and the sound and smell of saltrice with mushrooms boiling in the cauldron is enough to uncoil the knot in your stomach, the one you never quite notice until it's gone. The year's been hard. Harsh and bloody, as all years on Nirn inevitably are, but you think there's something rather specifically cruel in finding a lost friend, only to have them die in front of you. Again. Because that's a thing that happens, sometimes, apparently. And you gently close your eyes, ignore the seemingly endless static in your head, and take deep, slow breaths. And then you squeeze the arm of the wooden chair you've curled up in until it cracks violently. For the third time this week. At this point you know the drill and haul yourself up, dropping a handful of drakes on the inkeep's desk and striding purposefully out the door. Thankfully the tourists are too drunk to be alarmed, and the regulars don't bat an eye unless there's blood spilled, and even then only because there's bets to be placed. And yes, you're embarrassed, but you're kind of _always_  embarrassed, so that's nothing new.

You look up from the dark stone to see someone has a bonfire going on the other side of the Residential District, and if you focus enough on the snap of the flames, you can almost ignore the slurs from a gaggle of Dunmer as you pass, because even if everyone knew the things you've done, saving the very existence of the mortal plane isn't enough when you've got _tusks_. And the damn things have the audacity to keep growing back.

It feels like you've spent a century walking to the Temple, your large feet shuffling each step, your staff more of a walking stick than a weapon. A spore smacks directly into your hair, but it would be physically and psychically impossible for you to care less. Somehow, walking the 300 steps to the entrance feels like the hardest thing you've done in months, but your feet drag you into the warmth of the Temple, the light from braziers and lanterns and candles melting the chill from your bones. Maybe it's strange you hadn't noticed the cold. You always feel cold, anymore. You find yourself at your favored shrine-- the third on the left. You're considered an honorary Hand, and you could enter further into the cloisters, but you don't. They've never made you feel unwelcome, but you don't want to push your luck. Even then, the soothing flames from the public shrines are more than you deserve. _You will not take more_. This shrine has a decent view from a decorative window, and you stare absentmindedly through it, watching spores and embers drift through the wind, both moons hanging in the Autumn sky.

They say that the House of Troubles tests us, you think to yourself, and cuts us into better shapes. You don't think this shape is much better than the one you started out with. Logically, you know your own existence is a net positive for Tamriel. Denizens of Coldharbour no longer swarm its face, Crystal-Like-Law is whole, thanks partly to yourself. Even if you personally think the cost was too high. But logic means nothing in the face of whatever the gnawing emptiness in your stomach is, whatever causes the tension in your back to never relent, whatever the fog that lies behind your eyes and lets you walk and speak like a person when you've _never been one_. You kneel at the shrine and send a silent prayer to Blessed Almalexia and the Three-As-One, the same prayer you were taught as a grimy, barefoot child, the same prayer you've repeated for the past three decades. Outside, spores and leaves land upon buildings and people alike as the trees die and the mushrooms begin to fruit; and in a month or so, the snow will cover the embers, and the leaves will turn green again, and the mushrooms will wither under the Sun, despite the sorrow in your breast. The wheel turns and you _endure_.


	2. Day 2: Waking Up From A Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It seemed I had died and could see myself laid upon a table lit by candles. But with my own hands I touched the figure, and the figure drew breath, opened eyes, and rose from the table. Then the room was gone, and the world filled with light, and I awoke."

2 Frostfall, 3E 427

You're no stranger to strange dreams. You've been having them since you were a child, waking your parents in the middle of the night with shrieks and howls until you learned to stop, always ensuring your head is mashed into the pillow, that your tongue is safely tucked against the roof of your mouth and you know you haven't spoken. Your mother would always bind your wounds in the morning, where you had scratched at your skin until you bled and your linens were a rusted brown, and bind your fingers into mitts before you went to bed, in hopes of keeping her son uninjured for just one night. 

But lately you've been dreaming about death- your own, to be specific. And that's not exactly unusual, except you also dream of  _good things_ before you die. A woman holds your hand, and you can't remember her face but she's the most beautiful person you've ever seen. You dream of gold and purple and blood, pouring everywhere, and you're drowning in it. You're in love, but she isn't, not really. And that's okay, because you have enough love for you both. In hindsight, that's what the dream is about: love.

You love the men that killed you, the man that attacked you like a feral animal and fell limp as you drove your sword through his breast. You love the man-woman who styled your hair with kwama cuttle and then grabbed your face and kissed you with sticky hands, and at the end of the battle put you down like a wounded nix. Your teacher, whose hands were always gentle and strong, who taught you magic and mystery and loyalty. And the woman who could never love you, whose smile made you feel like you were falling from a steep cliff, who never loved you yet still held your hand through war and fear and death, who fought at your right hand and made love to your left. And as you-in-the-dream die, you grab for their hands and hold them, one last time, to feel loved. You wake up with tears on your face and a strange, throbbing emptiness in your chest. 

It's still the best dream you've ever had. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i have a lot of feelings about Nerevar and the Foul Murder


	3. Day 3: A Scene By The Ocean

3 Frostfall, 2E 583

 

"It's beautiful here. Gorgeous waves, warm sands that last for miles. Jewels better than anything my grubby hands could steal!. Just endless, endless beach."

"They don't last for miles. We're on an island," the Argonian said, turning to look at his companion. "Is the heat affecting you? You're not usually so..."

"Maudlin?" The mer shrugged, digging her feet further into the sand. "I know, I'm just glad to be back. At least I got to rob half the vendors in Grahtwood blind. I don't really like going back, but at the same time... I guess if anyone is gonna steal everything in that shithole, it's definitely gonna be me. Ya know?"

"Not really."

"Oh." He shuffled awkwardly in his seat, jet-black eyes cast to the side.

Things had been kind of uncomfortable since she'd asked Walks-Softly to be her escort to that absolute fiasco of a wedding, and it seemed like their relationship grew even more strained as time passed. She guessed it was her own fault for being so open with someone she knew was completely reticent, especially with _personal feelings_ , and _closeness_. Idiot. But, she supposed, Walks-Softly wasn't the only one who could turn denial into an art form. And she'd honestly thought they'd become closer after a couple years in Hew's Bane, breaking into his former master's mansion, fighting against the Iron Wheel. Wouldn't have been the first time she was mistaken. Further along the shore, she saw Velsa (reluctantly) and Narahni (enthusiastically) dipping their toes into the ocean, with Quen popping up from the waves every minute or so to take in a huge gulp of air. They seemed happy. Even Walks seemed to bloom under the sun, at least after her terrible attempt at small talk tapered off. His silk shirt and leather breeches seemed incredibly out of place on the beach; usually, he'd be complaining about sand and spray damaging his clothes. But out here watching his friends... An ache shot through the Bosmer's stomach at the thought and she quickly turned away, shoving a curtain of thick black hair away from her face.

"I'm gonna head back in. Still not used to all the sun, ya know." She stood abruptly and began the walk to the other side of the city walls, shooting a jaunty wave towards the group. After seeing Walks-Softly absentmindedly nod in acknowledgment, she tried her best not to look back.


	4. Day 4: A Scene In The City

 

4 Frostfall, 2E 580

 

The city is strange. Its spires tower above him at a height he hadn't known buildings could reach, not even the rock ones, with gray stone dolmens covering the land. Cobblestone paths laid over the ground like a spider's web, but there are no spiders, no animals at all except songbirds and the floppy-eared wolves city-dwellers keep on hand. He supposes he'll have to find a way to hide the bear in his pack- the poor thing will stick out like a wounded deer. He'll figure that out later, after he gets his footing in this alien place.

There's people everywhere: walking in and out of houses, gates, leaning out of strange holes in the walls to shout down below, the people on the ground moving around each other like a well-oiled trap. Or maybe an anthill, though the holes remind him of a termite mound. But all the strangeness of the city and its people fit into what he's been told of the place, so why does the thought of walking in make him sick with fear?

Not fear like when he was taken to the Roost for the first time, greedy claws turning his face every which way, and beetle-black eyes roaming over him like a particularly juicy eyeball. He swallows bile at the unwelcome memory. And not like the fear when Elder caught him playing with the bear cub in the woods and thrashed him something fierce. This is a _different_ fear, he thinks. Different in the way a child waves at him before scampering away, its eyes filled with a warm curiosity. Different in that he sees a guard bend down to help a fallen god-caller near the marketplace, and the caller _thanks_ him, so very different that there's _not a goddamn crow in sight--_

Excitement. _Hope_. That's what's mixed with the fear. At home there had only been fear with a sense of duty. But here? Maybe this different-fear could be something good. Or maybe _he_ could be something good. He takes a deep breath, runs a hand through his newly-unmatted hair, and steps into Daggerfall. 


	5. Day 5: Lost

 

Her sense of smell comes back to her first. The thick iron of blood, old and new, clogging the air like fog, and the smell of burning meat and hair. Carefully, she begins an inventory of herself. She doesn't feel any wounds, except maybe bruises from laying on stone and the coldness that never leaves her bones. Her stomach is wracked with hunger pangs, but less so than usual, and she hesitantly rolls her eyes, feeling the welcome weight of _both_  eyes in their sockets. With that, it hits her, and she knows that she's died and reformed, for the eighth, ninth time. Somewhere around there. She taps a sharp nail on the stone a few times and it echoes back, telling her she's in an enclosed space; a cave? A cell?

With a painful shove, the Orsimer hoists her naked form from the stone floor, bleary eyes desperately trying to focus through the frigid air. The Wailing Prison? It had to be, with the pitiful fire in the center of the room, and the burlap clothing laid out on the ground beside her. She shuffled closer to the fire, trying to remember her last moments. The Foundry barracks, and that Breton  _twerp_ had found her stash. She'd beaten him until he matched the scenery and found a new place to hide the loaf of bread she'd been hiding since her third shift in that body, and she'd be  _damned_ if she let some nix-legged minor nobility prick take it from her. And apparently she was, since half a shift later the twerp's companions took the bread, took  _her_ , then chopped through her legs with a fetching axe.  _Damn_. With a sigh, she fell back onto the wooden stool nearest the fire, tugging on the burlap breeches and shirt. She supposed she was lucky, because someone had apparently mistaken her reformed body for that of a 'new arrival' and tossed her in here. A new start. Huzzah.

Without warning, a loud screech filled her ears, the unholy sound of metal grinding on metal. Shouts filled the corridor, and as she edged closer to the bars of her cell, a particularly wet 'thunk' sounded right beside her door. She could recognize the sound of a freshly-detached head hitting the floor anywhere, and she stared bemusedly in front of the decapitated Xivkyn, its eyes still burning in rage. And then she looked up, and her eyes alighted upon the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen, over seven feet tall with rosy cheeks and hair pale like spun gold, wielding a giant, blood-soaked battle-axe. 

_"Whoa, there! Are you all right? The name's Lyris."_

She could only nod her head, speechless. Whatever new, cocked-up torture routine this was supposed to be, she'd roll with it, just to keep on seeing the warrior's battle-flushed face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is true-to-life because as soon as i heard Lyris' voice in game my big gay ass fell in love. anyway Er-Jaseen actually found her in the 'spawn point' closest to the Prison and put her in the cell to give her a better chance; she's not the first that he's 'rescued' either, not that anyone would know because she never got the chance to find out and poor Er-Jaseen will probably be worse than dead after the prison break.


	6. Day 8: Teaching a Craft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which i have a prompt already written, so why not post it out of order? life is meaningless and linear time is an illusion meant to keep the mortal mind from splintering under the weight of knowledge. or something.

"They say Tiber Septim sailed to frozen Atmora, and when he set foot upon the land, not even the air moved."

The Orsimer slowly moved her hand as she spoke, a snakelike tendril of ice weaving figure-eights between her tattooed fingers.

"Death. Not the heat of rot, but the emptiness of being. Stillness. _Nothing_. This is why so many young mages have difficulty with frost spells. It takes an iron will, a mountain's steadiness to slow the air before you, to still the water you breathe, to force the element itself to your will. The cold is slow, deep, the half-dreaming state before you pass out from exhaustion. It is crushing coal to diamond with nothing but your magicka and guar-headed determination. But it is possible."

She skimmed over the eyes of her audience, trying to impress the seriousness of the lesson upon them. It didn't work.

"But I've seen my ma make ice loads a' times, and my momma said she don't got a lick a' patience!" A grimy-cheeked Altmer boy exclaimed, prompting a few of his classmates to snicker behind their hands.

"Yes, but there's the thing-- when frost _becomes_... To a certain point, it sort-of sustains itself. It simply **is**. Once something stops, it is far easier to stay still than to move again. And once you know this, know the feel, know the _cold_ ," She smiled, and with a flick of her wrist, the glassy serpent shattered into glittering ice in front of them, suspended in midair. "You can replicate it. You never forget. You impose yourself on the energy around you, and shape it to the pattern you require." The assorted students gave various 'ooh's and 'aah's as she released the snow hanging in front of them, the heat evaporating it instantly.

"So what's the pattern?" A voice piped from the back of the group. An Imperial boy; a baker's son, from what she could remember.

"The pattern is stillness," She said, smiling at him in approval. "You make the water in the air, at your feet, even in your body in an emergency. Except don't do that, because you'll die if you fuck it up. Maybe when you're officially apprenticed. You want to slow down, then reach out with your magicka and impose that stillness on the world. Like making a sculpture, if that helps, except instead of chipping away over time, you do it all at once.

"Of course, fire is an entirely different beast. Can anyone spare a guess to what the major difference between the two elements is? Yes, Miss Arenim?"

"Well, fire is... Well, hot," The Dunmer girl stuffered out, her cheeks blazing as a Breton boy snorted loudly at her answer from the middle row. "And it's wild, er, uncontrollable. Or real fire is, at least."

"Very good! But one thing you need to remember is that the element you're creating _is_ real fire. Magical fire can just as well burn you to the bone as it will anything else, if you don't conjure it with that in mind." The tutor conjured a small plume of blue flame in her hand, letting the fire lick its way steadily upward before dissipating it with the clench of an olive fist.

"While frost is stillness, fire is _movement_. Writhing, shrieking, the ecstacy of  _being_. Again, this is why young mages can easily summon fire," And the flame rose again in her palm. "...But have difficulty putting it out," The flame disappeared into a wisp of smoke. "This takes a different sort of will, that you want it to climb, to consume, to move forward.

"And it will, it keeps climbing higher and higher, until you have to use every ounce of power to wrestle it into submission. While frost stops on its own, fire is uncontainable. Using frost spells is like wielding a warhammer: slow, unyielding, but ultimately in your control. Fire is like attacking with a feral animal. You don't control it, you're just holding the leash.

"Now," With a sudden clap, the orc smiled down at the group. "What do we get when we mix frost and fire?" The gaggle of students looked at eachother helplessly. "Water!" "Lightning?" "An explosion!"

"Close," their teacher said, tusks and lips twisted into a grin. "...but it's steam!" And with a clap of her hands, a gentle wave of steam rolled across their section of the courtyard, the children shrieking with delight and surprise, and the few adults on the green staring at them concernedly.

"Ha! Got you lot good, huh? But seriously. Mm, think about a straight line. Two distinct points on both ends." Blue-stained fingers plucked a blade of grass and held it in front of her audience, showing it horizontally. "At one side, there is frost; the other, fire. Complete and perfect opposites. But what if..." She pinched the ends together to form a circle, holding its shape together with a sliver of ice and giving it an experimental tug. "You did _this_? See, fire and ice are the same. Slow down a fireball enough and it'll become an ice shard. Speed up a frostbolt enough, and it'll become flames.

"Transmutation turns like to like, and there's the most telling of all. You can't just turn a blade of grass into iron. Well, maybe with an incredibly large amount of power, or with several stopgaps in between, but you'd probably give yourself an aneurysm. There's no real connection. But once you genuinely _understand_ something," The flame reappeared in her palm, and for a split second there was a flash of searing light, only to be transformed into a floating mote of ice a moment later. "You can change it how you will."

The children looked on in rapt attention, their round eyes practically boring holes into her hand. "Alright, that's enough, scamps." With a wave of her hand, the ice melted into the grass. "Tomorrow we'll be going over a bit more theory, and then we'll see how you fare for real. Behave yourselves, no casting without qualified supervision, whatever. You lot know the drill. Dismissed!"

The students clumsily scooped up their notes and quills, some falling over each other (Well, mostly the baker's son, she noticed,) in their hurry to run off. She leaned back into the ground as she watched them, idly wondering which of her students would return tomorrow with burns on them, and which would return with frostbitten fingertips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because Telvanni Azuk, Savior of Tamriel, Kicker of Molag's Balls, Puncher-Outer of Nocturnal's Lights, She Who Wedgied Clavicus Vile (but gave Barbas pets because he tried real hard), Didn't Do Much To Mephala TBH, finally gets to settle down in the Imperial City and do what she loves: tutoring both children and adults in magic. (until the Oblivion Crisis... oops.)


	7. Day 23: Participating In A Tradition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which Telvanni Azuk has a minor breakdown while undergoing a rite of passage and overshares a whole lot. don't worry, it happens to everyone. probably. also, baby's first ego death

Azuk sat upon the chaise-longue, her eyes flicking nervously between the two Buoyant Armigers in front of her. While the taller mer scurried around them collecting small jars and vials, the rounder, older Dunmer sharpened a series of thin ebonsteel needles against a whetstone. The scratching of the tools and clinking of alchemical bottles brought a familar calm. For a moment, if she closed her eyes, she could imagine she was at home, that the thick haze of tobacco and mushroom smoke was her own, drifting across her alchemy bench. Only for a moment, and then the nervousness returned twice as quickly as it had left. The Orc quietly scuffed her boots on the stone floor as the two Dunmer continued setting up their workstation beside her.

"You don't have to do this, Outlander. No one will judge you for leaving." The old Armiger said, his bushy white goatee hiding the movement of his lips, worry lines crinkling beside his eyes. Azuk gave him an incredulous look as he moved from the needles to pounding out a softly glowing resin across a reed mat. Not moving his eyes from his work, he continued. "Even some Armigers have declined our Lord Vivec's gift, once granted permission to receive it, and they have not been mocked for it. It is... A grueling process. Sometimes fatal. There is no shame in denial."

Azuk snorted, her stringy hair swaying as she shook her head. "No. Lord Vivec has permitted me this, and so I shall take it. I care not of pain, nor glory, nor beauty in this. But it is the honor our Lord has bestowed us," She gestured to the luminescent blue tattooing upon both Dunmers' arms and faces, "And that is why I take it."

With a final armful of ingredients set down before his master, the youthful mer pulled up a chair next to them, shifting slightly to watch the other mer work. In a few moments, his work was completed, and he gestured to the Orc, his manner now more businesslike than empathetic. "Alright, top and smallclothes off, but you may keep your pants. And remove the boots; I haven't gotten a stain on this leather in 300 years, and I'm not about to start now."

Azuk pulled off her linen shirt, an uncomfortable look upon her face as her scars met the warm, thick air in the kinhouse basement. With another swift movement, both sides of her chest wrappings were unhooked, and she laid herself face-down across the netch leather seat.

"This is not just a tattoo, like the hacked drawings one may find upon drunken mannish sailors, or those ash-ink scribbles of Ashlander savages. Or even those of House Dunmer, of scarabs and nix and sigils of the Three. This is a sacred ritual. Even the ritual tattoos of the Morag Tong pale in comparison, and in pain." His already-gruff voice deepening as he continued his obviously well-practiced speech. "Once we begin, we cannot stop. There will be no going back from this. Do you understand, Outlander?"

Azuk made an attempt to swallow through the dryness in her throat. After a moment, she was able to choke out, "Yes, Serjo. I understand."

"By undergoing this ceremony, by Lord Vehk, blessed be hir name, in life and death, you pledge yourself to the Three."

"I pledge myself to the Three."

"You pledge yourself to Lord Vivec, who has gifted you hir grace."

"I pledge myself to Lord Vivec, who has gifted me hir grace."

"You pledge to defend Morrowind, to defend Vvardenfell, to come to her aid when she calls."

"I so swear."

"You swear to pledge yourself to the Buoyant Armigers, that should your brethren have need of you, you will come."

"I so swear."

"Then I welcome you, Telvanni Azuk, as sister and spear. Rethri, bring me the awl."

The tall, lanky mer hopped from his seat and brought an ornate chitin box to his master's side. The old mer gently pried the ebony awl from its bed, the brazier overhead splaying light over the deeply-carved Daedric sigils and bright yellow gems studded within it. With a loud click, the needles were locked into place, the sound echoing around the stone interior.

The Orsimer sniffed the air for a moment, then gave a sideward glance to the ritual tool. "Blessing stones? They smell and feel the same..."

The bemused mer nodded his head, scooting his stool closer to her. "Yes, similar, but smaller and... Looser in make." With that said, he dipped the tightly-bound row of ebonsteel needles into the blue mixture, scraping them across the mat to ensure a proper amount. "Alright, sera, first stick."

He raised the blessed awl above the needles, his apprentice moving forward to pull the Orc's skin taut, and with a sharp tap, the needles were forced underneath the skin. She gritted her teeth in pain, her tusks jutting forward from the grimace on her face. "Eh, I've had worse."

The old mer snorted. "Just give it a minute," as he began to tap again and again, beating out a steady rhythm of metal against skin, the noise sluggishly moving through the tobacco-filled air.

After a few moments, it began. Live snakes began to coil under her skin, their scales made of fire and magic, angry tendrils writhing at their confinement as the doom-drum of her heart crashed in the background, through her ears, through every piece of her self. And as the mer went farther across her shoulderblade, the pain grew worse-- by the time he had reached her collarbone, the power was burning, ripping, tearing her apart. There was something similar, in this, to the hooks and chains of Coldharbour; that the nerves somehow never deadened, that the body could never release itself from the pain as the pain was not of mortal make. The old Dunmer went to gently move her into a sitting position, and she violently flinched at his touch.

"Sorry... Zoned out." She said, her voice choked and gravelled from strain. The taller mer took her forearm and held it forward, positioning her so his master could access the rest of the limb

The wizened mer kept tapping, his movements relentless, moving in rhythym to the magicka and smoke spiraling through the air, and where Lord Vehk's markings crossed his eye, a brilliant blue shone through the iris.

"Talk." Rethri said, giving her a warm smile.

"... Uh. What?"  
  
"Speak, you s'wit. He wants to hear you speak. It will keep your mind from the pain. Not very well, and not for long, but it will do." The tattooer spoke, his gaze never leaving his work.

"Oh. Sorry, I'm-- I'm not a good conversationalist..." Az said uncomfortably, frowning, then wincing as the needles moved to a more tender spot.

"Why are you doing this, then, to start. Not many outlanders would carry such a prominent symbol of devotion, especially one who is non-Dunmer." Rethri said kindly, his other hand drawing the skin of her arm away from his master's steady tapping.

"Oh. Well, I've always worshipped the Three. Ever since I was a child. I was born in Kragenmoor, actually. Uh, I think," She said, her lips twisting sourly in rememberance.

"Oh! Doesn't House Hlaalu keep the temple there?"

"When I was younger, House Dres kept the temple, actually. I would always look in, but was never able to enter... I got lucky and found some discarded tracts and other things, though. It, ah, always sounded nice. Hopeful, I guess.

"Things got better when Dres lost a bit of their clout there... Something about the two daughters of a high ranking official and a local Ashlander clan? It all very scandalous. Anyway, while the local kinhouse was in disgrace, Hlaalu stepped in and took control of the infrastructure in Kragenmoor.

"The new Temple guards actually let me in! Granted--" She sucked in a breath through her teeth as the needles punctured the skin of her wrist. "I had to go on evening break, but that was fifteen minutes in an actual temple! One of the Priestesses used to be a Hand, and she showed me the proper prayers and ways to kneel, and taught me how to make and apply poultices for myself and the others. She even said she wanted to buy my writ of servitude, though she never was able to get enough money scraped together. Still, it was, ah, very kind of her to try.

Later on, I was bought by a Telvanni magister, and I wasn't able to go as much as I had been. Most of the Telvanni aren't overly religious, you know, and my master's land didn't even have a temple! But, of course, I kept to my devotions, and was even allowed to set an altar in my quarters. Even after my Master's murder, I prayed."

Rethri set his jaw as his master moved over to the Orc's left breast, the last space for this side. "One would think you'd be overjoyed, having your freedom?"

She snorted, a puff of air lightly rocking her nose ring. As the needles and the pain moved closer to the tip of her breast, she forced herself to continue. "As if I knew what to do with it! I was a wreck after my master died. I was supposed to protect him-- with my life if I must. I suppose I tried my best, considering I did die... Several times, in the end. And anyway, I was his Mouth in all but name, he was my Magister, my Master, and my entire life was devoted to him. He treated me as almost equal, a knowledgeable mage in my own right, despite my status, and while he may not have freed me..."

She laughed, but it was an empty, far-away sound. "And then Coldharbour, and _time isn't real there_ , you know; and when we finally escaped, I washed up on Bleakrock. A little Nordic settlement between here and Solstheim that, uhm, got burnt down a while after in a Covenant raid, the sick fetchers, just like they tried to take out the shores on Stonefalls. Fighting through swamp and snow and a thousand leagues of civilian blood. And for what? A throne in a _shithole_ of a city, swarming with Daedra..."

The old mer cleared his throat. "Turn, sera. The other arm is next."

Azuk shuffled herself around until her other arm was bared to the Armigers, wincing with the movement of her swollen back. The pain had receded a bit as she had focused her mind elsewhere and elsewhen, but now the sensation of burning and tearing under her skin had returned in full force, along with a flushed embarrassment at speaking so openly.

"That's... Vehk's Tongue, that's awful." He shook his head. "I had heard things were bad on the mainland, with the war, and then the plague-- That was you, wasn't it? The Healer of Deshaan, they called you. And then all that daedric blasphemy, those... 'Anchor' things, and soldiers marching straight into Oblivion; you went in with the Mages' Guild, right? I'd noticed the medal on your cloak." The mer's hooked nose wrinkled in discomfort. "I know we're rather isolated in Vvardenfell, but it all just seems so... Far away. And to talk to someone who's actually been there, been fighting in that mess, it's a bit..."

"I don't blame you, sera. Most try not to dwell on it, especially those in the thick of it. If you let it in, you know, it never leaves. But Dres' cruelties, Coldharbour's cruelties are nothing compared to the atrocities men and mer visit upon each other in war. And for what? Gold, fame, our so-called 'honour'? What good is gold forged in the blood of farmers and merchants, each drake the head of a husband or wife? What good is fame when your peers are naught but stolen skins, dying mer with weeping sores, when friends and lovers become _revenants to the Worm? What is honour when they're **dead** and I'm..._ " Her words fell to a pale whisper, tears caught in bruise-rimmed eyes. "What good is it if they're dead and _I'm still here_?"

Rethri went to console her, a comforting platitude on his lips, but the older Armiger stayed his hand. "Many of our Armigers suffer the same mind-sickness. Whether in Nirn or Oblivion, war ravages the heart, the soul. For all that mortal existence is the Arena, it seems like we are unequipped for slaughter, and even less equipped to survive it. Now, on your back, ser Azuk. The eye is always the hardest."

Her green-gray skin darkened in shame at her second outburst as she settled back onto the chaise-longue, her head resting upon the arm with Rethri's deft fingers pulling the skin taut around her eye.

"Do not speak, do not listen. And try your best not to scream. Simply breathe, and keep your eyes closed. Ground yourself," The tattooer said, and she swallowed in understanding.

And with that, pain ripped through the side of her face, as if someone had begun to pour lye over her, the magick engulfing everything, the burning as if she were standing under a lava floe. The pain before- any pain she had ever felt was nothing compared to this, the pain of the needle over her eyelid worse than having the eye excised, the ink on her face somehow burying itself like fetcherflies into her very bones. She struggled to keep her breathing steady; her entire body was burned in bright bluebell flames, almost ethereal yet becoming more solid by the minute, each tap of the awl a tap of the drum beat, and as the heat and pain grew, the taps morphed into chimes, into bells and rings and the ecstatic cacophony of being.

A fox shrieking in the hunt in the Glenumbra wilds, the mandibles of nix-beasts as they fought and ate and fucked, harpy talons dashing a knight on the rocks to crack him open like a turtle in its shell. And she was the fox screaming in fear, the harpy and the knight, her carapace shifted as she swam through rivers and oceans while she flew above, watching herself watch herself, kissing a lover, brother, friend as she plunged a dagger into a man's belly, as she walked through sand on digitigrade feet with a mer's hand in his own, and with her powerful teeth she felled the gazelle, a burbling howl ripping from her throat, and her grey, scaled fingers were wrapped around the thief's neck, and her head was tilted back with lust-glaced eyes meeting his own, and everything, everything in the Aurbis was within her, and her eyes struggled to snap open as she realized  _everything-nothing--_

As the music, the pain,  _her heartbeat_  reached its crescendo, azure flames raced up her body, lighting each section of blue-hued flesh brighter than an Ayleid well. For a moment, she thought she could hear herself screaming, a pain in her chest, and she forced back the sudden urge to shriek and weep, to claw at her chest to feel something, anything other than the uncontrollable throb of magicka through her veins, to escape from the trance as she was drawn deeper into the power within herself, within every life she had ever lived. 

The flames jumped upward, sparks lashing at the ceiling for the final time, and vanished, the blue-inked skin underneath becoming almost metallic in hue. And with the last plume of fire gone, the excess power her body had violently struggled to imprison finally snapped into place, a gentle trickle falling over her, beads of water soaking slowly into her battered body. She painfully cracked her unpainted eye open, relaxing a bit on seeing her fellow Armigers' proud faces. 

"Well, that wasn't so bad, was it?" The old mer cracked a grin, kindly looking down on her. "Rethri, help her up, if you would."

The Dunmer gently took her hand, pulling the Orsimer up with a swift movement and stepping away to give her some space. She stared wide-eyed around the room, taking in the new sights, sounds; everything was so much... _Clearer_. Detailed. The world stilled, laid out in front of her like a book-- not Mages' Sight, but something lighter. Looser. With a wobbly start she began to walk closer to the two Dunmer, flashing them a weak smile.

"That, uh. That was really something. B'vek..." She realized what she had said and snorted, and the last vestige of her trance fell away, her mind eager to forget the pain she had experienced.

"B'vek, indeed, sera. Just one last bit," The portly mer said, rummaging around in his workbox. A few moments passed until he found what he was looking for-a stained ceramic cup and what appeared to be a rather old bottle of flin. He poured a rather generous handle into the cup, then to Azuk's surprise and dismay, scooped the remnants of the ink into the cup as well, where it dissolved into a bright blue froth.

"Drink up, now!" He said, shoving the cup into her less-than-eager hands. "It'll help your body adjust to the magic. Wouldn't want your body to reject it, now would we?"

"Wait, that can happen?!"

"Mm, I don't think so, but it's better safe than sorry. Go on, I'll not have that flin go to waste. An ancestor won it in a bet with Divyath Fyr himself!"

With no small amount of trepidation, Azuk firmly set her jaw and knocked back the concoction, the sweet and sour notes of finely-aged flin being completely overpowered by the taste of hot ash, sugar, and ozone from the ink, the clumpy concoction settling warmly in her belly. With a grimace, she carefully wiped her hand across her tusks and lips. "Do I have any on my face?"

Rethri shook his head, leaning his back against the cool stone wall. "You're fine, but I do think we could all use a drink after that. A real drink, not that stuff. I still remember how bad it tastes."

"You s'wit, that's ancient flin!" The older mer cried indignantly, shuffling over and giving his apprentice a slap across the shoulder.

"I meant the ink, Master, the ink! A thousand pardons, ow, I'm sorry!"

While the bickering mer ascended the staircase, Az stared at the blue swirls engraved into her body in wonder. Despite the stark division between green and blue on her skin, she had never felt so whole. No one could doubt her devotion to the Three after this-- not even herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i guess you could go with the 'you just get permission to get the tattoo and it's just a normal tattoo' headcanon, but that's boring and sucks. anyway, the ink is a mix of nightshade resin, Red Mountain ash, various distilled hallucinogenics, and atherial dust. and, ofc, some of Vehk and Vehk's "essence" which can get as wild as you want lol. the awl is studded with blessing stones, forged from ebonsteel, with Daedric sigils and complex enchantment woven through. maybe overkill, but it's rare enough that you don't see any NPC sporting it, and it's the same color of Vivec's skin, soooooo.


	8. Day 17: A Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which a coming out is done, and everything, for once, is good.

The weather-beaten mer looked up through lidded black eyes at his only child, a bowl of vibrant yellow yolks paused halfway to chapped lips.

“Okay.”

His child visibly started, surprised at his easy answer.

“Just 'okay'? I mean, I didn't think you'd be mad, but…”

The old mer shook his head, setting down the bone-hewn bowl and wiping a smear of yellow egg from his mouth.

“Ye know I woul’n mind, kid. Do wha’er makes ye ‘appy. Will ye be goin ter the Shaper, ‘en? Or th’ old-fashion way?”

 

“I don't want to be re-shaped. I might not be super traditional, but that still seems a bit much, you know? I'll just use padding and paints, like Auntie Goob. No lifts; I'm fine with being short. It makes me sneakier, and there's plenty of other races with short women; I don't think anyone would really notice. And I've, uh, picked out the name 'Lyrim’, after cousin Lyrael. D'you... think she'd be mad?” The young elf began to wring her hands as she nervously chattered, her teeth worrying a pitch-dyed lip. 

 

Her father hefted himself from the leather chair, making his way around the table and tightly embracing her, tucking her head under his chin.

“Yer cousin woulda been so proud a ye, sweetie. I know't I am. M’ sweet, sweet Lyrim. I'm so proud a who you become.”

The girl sniffled into her father's worn shirt, her racing heart finally easing in her chest.

“Thanks, Da. It means a lot. And it's really good to be back home.” 

 

The two elves smiled at each other, the elder ruffling his daughter's hair fondly.

“C'mon,” The mer said, taking her hand and pulling her to the threshold. “We got ter re-introduce ye t’ everyone!”

As she ducked through the pod's leather flap, she grinned, her own beetle-black eyes shining in the midday sun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't believe in homo/transphobia in the TES Universe wholesale, but Bosmer can't change shape according to the Green Pact. you can probably transition with flesh shaping magic, potions, rituals, etc, but that's still changing shape. not that every Bosmer practices the Pact, but there's traditional methods to get around that, like padding, tucking, makeup and contouring, and since female Bosmer are usually stronger and broader than males, lifts in shoes/adjustments in posture. funnily enough, the spells to draw out horns or make your natural horns larger are also against Orthodox interpretations of the Green Pact. traditional FTMs usually use potions to grow beards, binders, and certain exercises to make their form more slender.


End file.
